The House That Built Me

The House That Built Me

You might be thinking, “Poor child, what a traumatic childhood she must have had.” But honestly, nothing could be further from the truth. I remember my childhood filled with smiles, laughter, and love. What God has shown me is that we are not defined by one moment—good or bad. We are the sum of all our experiences. Like a garden, our lives are a blend of soil, rocks, weeds, and fertilizer. And what matters most is how we tend that garden.

A tiller prepares the ground for planting, breaking up compacted soil to allow growth. And the greatest tiller of all is God. Let me break it down—those painful, ugly moments in life often get packed deep into our hearts and minds. We think keeping them buried gives us control, but in reality, they're blocking our growth. That emotional and spiritual constipation keeps us stuck. Only when we allow God to till the soil of our souls can we release what’s been compacted and welcome fresh, nourishing compost. That’s what makes the difference between growing weeds or blooming flowers.

Before my sister and I went to live with our grandmother, we lived on Seymour Avenue in Newark. Anyone familiar with Jersey or Newark knows that even in the 1960s, that was a tough neighborhood. What I remember most vividly was the Watts Riots. I don’t recall many details, but I do remember my mom telling us not to look out the window—people were shooting. She tucked us in the closet with snacks and toys, and we played like innocent children, unaware of the danger just outside.

When I returned from living with my grandmother, we stayed on Seymour Avenue for a short time before moving to a new home: a three-bedroom, three-story brick house on Schley Street in Hillside, New Jersey. That house would become the heart of my childhood. It raised me.

We were the second Black family on the block, surrounded mostly by white neighbors. This was 1970, just a few years after the Civil Rights Movement, but I never felt the sting of racism. My mother walked Schley Street like she owned it. Everyone knew her. The neighborhood wives came to her for advice, shared their business with her. Their children took me to the park, bought me ice cream, and pushed me on the swings.

Eventually, the street began to change. Each week, a white family would move out and a Black family would move in. Before long, Schley Street was a vibrant Black neighborhood, our own little playground.

Summers were magical. We’d wake up early, do our chores, and eat cereal while watching Schoolhouse Rock or Bugs Bunny. Then the fun began—hide-and-seek, kickball, hopscotch, “catch a girl, kiss a girl,” and double Dutch. We ran the length of the block like it was our personal kingdom. Some days we walked to the elementary school or the PAL (Police Athletic League) to meet up with friends. On the way back, we stopped at the corner store for big bags of penny candy—trading Bazooka gum, Tootsie Rolls, Lemonheads, and candy necklaces like they were treasure.

I had my two best friends, Kelly and Jammie. Jammie lived on the corner; Kelly lived across the street. We did everything together. When I had sleepovers, my mom would bring cookies and lemonade for us while we played. Life was sweet. Life was simple.

Schley Street became the foundation of my rose-like garden. The occasional argument or scuffle didn’t overshadow the joy because my memories were saturated in love and laughter. My mother made sure of that.

I lived on Schley Street from age seven to sixteen. It was my safe haven. We moved away only once—when my mom finally left my stepfather. She left him the house, and he brought in my brother and cousins to help cover the mortgage. But within a year, it all fell apart. No one was paying bills, and the house was in ruins. Eventually, my stepfather called my mom and asked her to take it back.

He realized too late—she was the one holding it all together.

She agreed, but only under one condition: that he give up the house entirely and move out. He did. And my mom returned with fierce determination. She repaired every bit of damage, reclaimed her home, and we moved back in.

I picked up right where I left off—in the house that joy built.

Once we were back, our home became a sanctuary for others, too. The state would place children with us for emergency shelter, but over time, no one wanted to leave. And my mom, with her big heart, never turned them away. Our house echoed with laughter, music, playing—and above all, love.

Looking back now, I see it clearly. God’s hand was always at work—shaping me, grounding me, preparing me. Giving me the tools I’d need to manage the weeds and nurture the flowers in my garden.

Schley Street didn’t just build a house. It built me.